


Sestina: To the Future

by badass_normal



Category: Prison Break
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-18
Updated: 2009-04-18
Packaged: 2017-10-11 01:09:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/106615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badass_normal/pseuds/badass_normal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The past, the present, and where they hope to be someday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sestina: To the Future

And so it comes to be that extremes like "never"  
like "always" like "someday" show up all the more red  
although the folded rose has faded across two continents, passed between the fingers  
of victim, of avenger, of lover, her special kind of paper crane,  
once a gift, now a futile promise to watch over her when he himself is so lost  
that his trademark smirk and confidence have faded to but a whisper

in the face of Odysseus' curse, spoken in her resigned whisper  
that has only ever prayed for this to be over, this never-  
ending voyage that sucks all of them or the two of them, lost  
at sea between Scylla and Charybdis, fearing their still-beating red  
hearts will be perfect fodder for the monsters, the monsters that feast on crane  
or eagle or swan—prey, predator, beautiful wild card alike—the enclosing fist of their enemies, prying fingers

tireless in Their search. His games and lies of long ago seem irrelevant now, only memories of his fingers  
tangled with hers in an infirmary from another life, of his husky near-whisper,  
of the rose on her desk when nothing other than an origami crane  
would have occurred to her, although no less so than that haunting, damning "never  
fall in love with an inmate" slipping by her, failing to flash its red  
warning lights, failing to halt her before she had lost

that common sense she had been allegedly building for eighteen months, a lost  
junkie searching for redemption without a clue what the word even meant. The fingers  
that lingered over the scars on her back are different from those that brushed her red  
hair from her eyes before capturing her lips for the first time, and she can still feel it, that whisper,  
that ghost of his kiss that is worth waiting forever for, that she will never  
leave behind, even as his mouth finds new places to explore: the curve of her wrist, the crane

of her neck, the marble of her collarbone, the heartbeat in her temple. But she can fold her thousandth crane,  
make the spiritually-granted wish that what was so close (never close) to being lost  
will be found in a near or distant future where he will never  
be guilty of the sins he believes he has committed, when the blood that _does_ stain his fingers  
can be just a memory of a dream of a ten-year return trip, when he can whisper  
without hidden agenda this truth of theirs, when they can live in a world without extremes, with colors other than flaming, unshakable red,

because it might be passion, but it is also the color "stop," the color "rage", the color "blood red."  
Just as they are not a wild mess of sex, but the simmer of ecstasy, the promises to be kept, the fluttering of a winged crane  
lifting itself to heights of power hiding behind a stoic whisper,  
enduring, present, overpowering, tinted with lost  
innocence, yet somehow strong without hardness and soothed by gentle fingers.  
Maybe "eternal" is an extreme worth experiencing, or the promise she will later make of "never."

Now, here, the whisper: "one day," when there will be no need for the protection of a paper crane,  
No more days lost in a struggle with the monsters, "always" in their eyes, rings on their fingers.  
They don't need an ending under an orange-red sunset, just the assurance that they will not be defined by this past of turmoil, but by the future journey. Never.


End file.
